A Christmas Remembered

     Morning dawned warm, as a soft summer sun beamed pink above the distant horizon, close to the mauve-tipped hills, a promise of possible heat sent shimmering across native reserves, dewy from night that was quiet and still. The grass remained green until midsummer sun burned it brown, dry, lacking any moisture. Colourful parrots screeched among blue-green leaves of tall eucalypt trees in nearby parks, the creek flowing endlessly toward a lake.
     Under the warmth of a blue summer's day in the southern hemisphere, thoughts turned to how green was the valley, my valley in an English spring, when the wildflowers graced the high banks of Dorset lanes and in May, cow parsley grew tall beside narrow winding roads. Owls hooted in the still night air hunting for food, farm animals wandered in the higher lush field above the cottage in lengthening twilight of summer, munching on sweet grass, their udders swinging to and fro through the greenness.
     But as the year passed and autumn turned into winter, chestnuts having dropped in the lower woodland, lost amongst fallen leaves, pheasants swooped squawking over the garden and hedges, Christmas was imminent. The garden was going to sleep having been carpeted with the first of winter's snow, buried in frosty nights when the moon cast silvery beams over snowy fields, glistening like diamonds.
     Another gentle snowfall came quickly, unexpectedly, clouds scudded across the moon, shedding their whiteness falling softly upon the countryside, large flakes cascaded down from above where a darkened sky emptied itself upon the earth below. The snow-laden clouds spilling white crystals fluttering across small hills in my valley, forming a virginal carpet of winter whiteness, a unique beauty heralding Christmas that year.
     Snow sat thickly on tall pine trees and between them, pathways sprinkled with a dusting, looked peaceful, untouched except for small footprints of a passing fox, slinking through the night.
     Christmas, cold and frosty, the nights long, days short, with snow forming in the garden quietly, a turkey sizzled softly in the Aga, stuffed with great Granny's stuffing recipe. The pudding just made, awaited custard or cream to be poured over it. Outside, the air was sharp, but inside the cottage was warm, homely, with a crackling fire, carols were heard drifting from the radio. The children laughed and played with newly acquired games close to the Christmas tree, twinkling with small lights. Many greeting cards hung around doorways while holly and ivy adorned the old Welsh dresser and elsewhere. Tinsel and pretty silver baubles were entwined amongst the ivy, while a smell of pine wafted through the air from the tree in the corner of the sitting room. Coloured paper lay around the floor where the children had unwrapped their presents. 
     That particular Christmas brought memories flooding back, never to be experienced in the southern hemisphere where the warm sunshine never felt like Christmas in England and never would, but a different atmosphere was created, of childhood memories spent at the seaside, where the white sand met a pale green sea, the tide having gone out leaving pools and a sandbank to walk upon. A few shells were left close to the water's edge, bending now and picking one up, Christmas in England was but a distant memory.